


Liminal Grief

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Northern Lights Farm [2]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Depression, Developing Friendship, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: The new farmer has a level of equal-opportunity-friendliness that reminds Shane of an old friend, but when the mask comes off, it's more like looking in a mirror.
Relationships: Shane/Female Player (Stardew Valley)
Series: Northern Lights Farm [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1211604
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Very much based in the game, but littered with my own headcanons, both for this particular farmer and for Shane. Like other stories in this series, this could be considered standalone, but follows the same farmer (named Lydia) and the same Shane, and shares continuity with those other works.

It had taken a while—most of the spring, actually—but Lydia had finally fallen into a routine.

The routine involved sticking to the farm, mostly. It needed a lot of work—a lot of work she didn't know how to do. She spent her days trying to replicate the tips she'd unearthed in Granddad's old books, his journals on the seasons and crops, and her nights sleeping more soundly than she'd slept in her whole life.

It was hard work. Scary work. Every time she took hold of a weed, she prayed she wasn't about to pull up one of the precious crops she'd spent her dwindling money on. But she was getting through it.

And when she'd done all she could do for the day, there was always the distraction of town.

Thinking of Pelican Town's square that way— _town_ , because the farm was technically in some kind of rural unincorporated area—always made her feel a little like some Austenian heroine, donning her gloves and coiffing her hair to visit civilization. In reality, the best she could muster was a shower before the long, dusty walk, but she'd always liked stories. Something she'd had in common with Granddad.

And this story was full of characters: the downtrodden but enduring mayor, the rebellious daughter of the local grocer, the hardworking big-city doctor, the gregarious saloon-owner…

As the days passed, and she made an effort to greet everyone with cheer, she got more and more back: brief small talk peppered into her days, friendly waves, smiles losing their wariness.

Well. From some people, at least. The runner-up town drunk sure hadn't taken to her friendliness so far.

Interactions with Shane followed, more or less, the same pattern as the first. She offered a pleasantry. He found a way to reject it.

When she crossed paths with him again at the bar on a Friday night: "Hey, Shane. How's it going?"

And in return: "Why are you bothering me." With his inflection, it sounded more like a complaint than a question. "I want to be alone."

On a Tuesday as she stood outside Pierre's, when Shane passed by on his way to JojaMart: "Nice day, isn't it?"

It would have been easy enough for him to agree and keep power-walking on by, but instead he said, "No, I don't have time to chat with you." Like she'd asked him to reflect in detail on the most recent _Queen of Sauce_ episode.

But these were downright polite interactions compared to last week's, when she'd been fishing at the river south of the ranch, well after sundown. She'd spotted him walking home, weaving slightly on the beat-down dirt path, catching himself every few steps as if gravity was making its best effort against him.

"Hey," she called out, ignoring the tugging on her line, "are you okay?"

"What do you want from me?" he demanded, his whole body swinging around so that his red-rimmed eyes could glare at her. Once they'd managed to focus, anyway. "Money? I'd give you a pot of gold to leave me alone!"

"I could use a pot of gold, actually," she began, but he was already in motion again, stomping up the path to the ranch house and slamming the door behind him.

She certainly didn't need to keep putting herself out there. There were plenty of other people who were already nice enough to her, going on friendly, even: Gus and Emily, who were always excited when she brought in one of her crops for them to experiment with; Abigail, who came up with imaginative renovations for the farm Lydia now inhabited; Harvey, who was a bit distant but earnest.

But she'd seen the paths that Shane beat through Pelican Town. To JojaMart, hunched into his sweatshirt, scowling; to the saloon, no longer glowering but run down; to the ranch at the end of the night, a slow and meandering walk, like he already dreaded doing it all over again. She recognized the patterns. She hadn't been a shelf-stocker, but she knew a kindred soul. Another person caught on the conveyor belt of the corporate machine.

That was probably her dramatics again. Her _character-profiling_. Maybe Shane was just a grouch, happy to scare off anyone every opportunity he got. But on the off chance that that wasn't the case…

She wasn't going to stop saying hello just because he glared at her for it. Just in case.

On a Saturday night, as spring began to wilt beneath the pressure of summer, she donned her metaphorical white gloves and committed to a night at the saloon. She'd tried to keep working after sundown a few days this past week, but she still just didn't have the stamina for it; she felt like one of those limp weeds she kept tearing out of her land.

A drink was just what she needed. A drink, and maybe some food. Her stomach rumbled despite the meal she'd eaten at mid-afternoon; the smell inside the Stardrop was greasy, and cheesy, and tomato-y, and she drifted toward the counter, following the smell. Gus was busy chatting with Pam, but Emily noticed her right away and came over with a smile.

"Hey, Lydia!" she said. "You okay?"

Lydia blinked at the concern and picked up a nearby spoon to examine her own face. "I look that bad? I showered and everything."

Emily tipped her head to the side, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Not bad. Just tired. Your aura's a little pale."

"My aura is accurate, then." She dropped the spoon and leaned against the bar counter. "I think I'll just have a beer tonight. A fancy cocktail might knock me out."

"I won't tell Gus," Emily said in a conspiratorial tone, grabbing a glass. "We're making pizzas, if you're interested."

_Pizza_. The source of that divine smell. Lydia's stomach rumbled again. She'd had a favorite pizza place back in the city; it had been her last meal before she left for the valley. She wondered if the stuff Gus cooked up was any good, if he was hiding a wood fired brick oven somewhere out back.

"Hey, Shane," Emily said, just as cheerfully as she'd greeted Lydia, and Lydia realized that Shane was standing at the bar a few feet away from her. "The usual?"

"Yeah." He laid his money on the bar.

"Coming right up," Emily said, picking up a second glass.

She retreated to pour the beer, and Lydia glanced sidelong at Shane, gave a little wave. He looked even more wretched than usual, eyes hooded, five o'clock shadow thick.

She smiled like she didn't notice any of that. "Hey. Happy Friday."

He met her eyes and sighed. "Sure."

Well, it was monosyllabic, but it was an improvement. Emily returned with their beers. Shane picked his up, gave what might have been a nod in Lydia's direction, and wandered away to his usual table. During the walk, Lydia estimated that he'd already downed half the beer.

"I'm wearing him down," she said, impressed with her own prowess. 

"Well done," Emily said. Somehow, she kept the congratulatory tone of her voice from being condescending. "So, how about that pizza?"

Lydia tallied up her funds in her head. She could spare the money, probably. She _shouldn't_ , though. If she wanted the farm to succeed, if she wanted to have plenty for the summer planting, if, if, if—

But the smell was just too overpowering. "Yeah, I think I'll have one," she said. "There a choice of toppings or anything?"

"Just the special, really. Green peppers and sausage and onions."

"Sounds perfect."

Some part of her told her to cancel the order. To take it back, keep the paltry pocket money where it belonged. She just couldn't seem to unstick her jaw to do it. She'd eaten a lot of fresh-caught fish and wild spring onions lately, and not much else; she was dying for a little variety.

She sipped her beer while she waited, people-watching. The kids swarmed in and occupied the arcade; she probably could have caught Abigail's eye and joined them, but their company seemed a little boisterous for her at the moment. They were only a few years younger than her, technically—not kids at all—but she felt out of step with their conversations. Too old, too worn out.

She snorted at her own melancholy. Give a girl a farm she didn't know how to run, and she'd turn into a mopey navel-gazer in no time.

"Fresh out of the oven," Emily said, sliding the platter of pizza across the bar. It was much, much too big for one person to consume, even a person as hungry as Lydia. "Enjoy!"

"Thanks," Lydia said, reverie broken, and surreptitiously scouted for somewhere to sit.

She'd been making inroads, definitely, but it was still an insular community. People tended to pair off, huddle up in their groups—treading the same boards they did every Saturday night. She wasn't sure where to stick a foot in the door, who wouldn't just crush it as they pulled it closed.

Her eyes landed on Shane's table. It didn't get more insular than that. Party of one. Two, maybe, if you counted the beer he was staring at. The look in his eyes suggested it might be his last.

Well, he'd been...amenable, sort of, earlier. There was an empty chair at his table. She had a bribe in the form of pizza. And if he was a jerk to her in front of the whole bar, someone else would definitely take her in. Squaring her shoulders, she made her way over.

* * *

Trying to treat this like any other night had been a mistake.

Most of the time, the Stardrop cut a sharp contrast to the bar back in the city. Rustic instead of divey, an old crowd rather than a young one, local beer instead of twenty-seven varieties on tap. And that suited Shane just fine. Remembering that bar meant remembering Patrick and Charlotte, and it was better not to remember. Better to immerse himself in scenery that couldn't get confused with memories.

Especially tonight.

Only problem was his brain, which had had it out for him for just about a year now. _Isn't this the song that was playing when they told me they were getting married?_ it said, and, _Look, that bottle Gus is keeping up on the top shelf looks like the whiskey me and Patrick split when Charlotte got pregnant_ , and, _The new farmer girl sure reminds me of Patrick._

He wasn't drunk enough for that kind of thinking yet. Brain should've gotten the message by now. It needed to be damn near pickled before he'd go anywhere near those old memories.

And the farmer girl—yeah, maybe she had Patrick's wide-eyed friendliness, but he wasn't interested in discovering any other similarities between her and his dead best friend.

"Hey," a breezy voice said. "Can I sit here?"

Slowly, he lifted his head. Like his reluctance had summoned her, Lydia stood over his table, balancing a platter of pizza in one hand and holding her pint glass in the other.

He meant to say _No_. As rudely as possible. Maybe something snide along with it, like, _Don't you have other people to annoy?_ Maybe better than that. A real zinger. Something that would send her scurrying for good. Apparently none of his other comebacks, reiterated at increasing volume whenever they crossed paths, hadn't been severe enough.

But a ghost possessed him instead, and he said, "Why?"

Like an idiot. Give this kind of person an inch, they'd take a mile. Hadn't he figured that out the first day they'd met? He knew exactly how this went.

He knew exactly how this ended.

"Empty seat." She pointed, as well as she could with her hands full. "Unless you're waiting for someone."

It was an innocent-enough assumption, but regardless, it felt like she'd stabbed him in the gut and twisted the knife. It sure felt like he was waiting. Waiting for Patrick and Charlotte to walk through that door, waiting until he knew how to parent his friends' orphaned daughter, waiting to wake up from this unfeeling nightmare…

He could lie. He could say he _was_ waiting for someone. She couldn't have been paying enough attention to him to know the truth, and if she gave him the stink-eye later when it was clear his "company" wasn't coming, well, that didn't matter to him. Maybe it'd put an end to her niceties. Maybe it would be a good thing.

"I'll share the pizza," she offered.

He hadn't allowed himself to look at it too closely before, but now that she'd pointed it out, he could smell it. Bread, cheese, sauce...Gus had really stepped up his game recently. Nothing went better with a beer than pizza.

Well, pepper poppers, maybe, but nobody was making those around here.

"Sure," he said, before he could think better of it. Free food was worth a little inane chatter. "Whatever."

She beamed like he'd greeted her as an old friend, put her pizza down, and sat. "Thanks," she said. "I'm never going to get through this whole thing on my own."

Her timing was a little unbelievable. That she'd forgo rubbing elbows with the rest of the bar—something she did reliably—today, of all days. That she'd bring a pizza along with her. Almost like _she_ had been the one possessed by a ghost—a ghost trying to reach _him_.

But that was even crazier than all the local superstition. And maybe a little part of him wanted to believe it, but the rest of him couldn't take comfort from something that wasn't true.

He picked up a slice of pizza, though. "I love this stuff," he admitted. "Thanks."

"Sure," she said. "You're doing me a favor, honestly. I don't have the energy to hang out with the kids tonight, and the oldies all want to talk about the farm." She pulled a face. "I work my ass off twelve hours a day at the place. Sometimes I'd rather not relive it all again at the end of the night."

"Hmm," he said. A nice, noncommittal syllable. He took a big bite of pizza—a good excuse not to elaborate.

"Still beats Joja," she sighed. "How is the old place, anyway? Still soul-sucking?"

He swallowed, surprised into responding. "You worked at Joja?"

"Not storefront. Desk jockey." Her nose crinkled up like she'd bitten into a particularly sour lemon. "Carpal tunnel instead of knee problems. I really suffered." He snorted, and she smiled. "Shit, I'm kind of glad to hear you didn't know. Feels like I've been the lone rider of the rumor mill for weeks. But somewhere out there, conversations are happening that are not about me."

"No," he said. "I just don't participate in conversations."

She rolled her eyes, but kept smiling. "Right. How could I forget?"

He felt sort of unsettled by her careless attitude, the same way he had when she'd shaken his hand at the bar. Like his brusque commentary didn't put her off; like she could have a conversation with even an unwilling participant. The exact opposite of him, when it came right down to it. He couldn't tell if he was jealous or repulsed.

"They'll move on eventually," he said. Not a reassurance or commiseration, but a statement of fact.

She eyed him thoughtfully. "You'd know," she conceded. "You're new to the area, too, right?"

"Yep." He didn't elaborate. There was pizza to eat, beer to drink. Conversation to avoid.

Marnie and Jas were the only people in this town who knew exactly why he was here. He was not about to explain it to anyone else.

"You like it here?" she asked.

"Why, are you having second thoughts? Kind of late for that, isn't it?"

"No! No." She frowned, and he realized it was the first time he'd really seen her do so. "Just curious what other people from outside the valley think of it here. I want this to be long term, but…" She shrugged.

_But farming isn't exactly easy or profitable?_ Probably a hell of a shock for someone who'd had an office job. All that sudden, manual labor. All those razor-thin profit margins. A day that didn't end promptly at 5.

"The people are busybodies," he said.

She chuckled. "I've noticed."

"This saloon is the sole source of entertainment."

"Hey, don't forget the museum. And library. Same building, but..."

"All the young people want to leave," he pushed on, ignoring her. "Or they're here on a whim, thinking the valley's gonna cure them of something."

He shot her a pointed look. She raised a single eyebrow, as if to acknowledge his point, but she didn't volunteer what that _something_ might be for her. Fine by him.

"All the old people either feel like they're trapped here, or that it's their job to protect the place against modernization, or both."

"Ah," she said. "Explains that scene I witnessed at Pierre's the other day." She paused to take a deep drink of her beer. "So is there anything you _like_ about the valley?"

"Not really," he said, automatic, even though it was a lie. But he wasn't about to tell her—he wasn't about to tell _anyone_ —that he liked the way the air smelled after dusk, or that he liked the sounds the frogs made at the dock on the lake, or that he liked the way the chickens flocked to him all bright-eyed in the morning even when he was dreary-eyed himself.

There were very few things left in the world he liked, all fragile as bubbles blown by a child. If he drew attention to them, they, too, would vanish.

"I'll take it under advisement," she sighed. "I only spent summers here as a kid. It seemed magical, back then." She picked up another slice of pizza, considered it. "Still does, actually, I'm just...having a harder time believing it."

"It's not magic," he said flatly. "You just had a big imagination."

She laughed, as if she'd never learned how to take offense. "Come out to the farm sometime. There's some creature out in the woods that makes a noise like nothing I've heard anywhere else. We'll see who believes in magic then."

"Once you've seen the backroom of a JojaMart, you realize humans are incapable of magic," he muttered.

"Who said anything about _humans_?" she said with an exaggerated wink.

He huffed. Her absurdity was sort of funny, just the way Patrick's had been. Over-the-top, ridiculous; he would've loved that wizard guy in his tower west of the lake, or the crusty old adventurer up in the mountains with the eye patch…

But the similarities meant nothing. She wasn't Patrick. She wasn't being nudged along by his ghost. He couldn't, wouldn't, believe in that shit.

Even though she'd brought him pizza on his birthday. On the anniversary of the day they'd died.

"Well, you ever want a break from that backroom, come out to the farm," she said, serious now. "Get a look at what it's like to live free—and broke." She smiled, a little crookedly, and finished off her beer.

True to her scary sixth sense, Emily turned up right as Lydia put down her glass. "Can I get you anything else?" she asked, beaming between the two of them like she was the proud mother of a child who'd finally gotten a playdate.

He didn't exactly want to encourage that thinking, but...he didn't want to be indebted to anybody, either. Especially not somebody down to their last dollar, when he'd eaten half her pizza. He was an asshole, but he hadn't fallen quite that far.

"No thanks," Lydia began, but Shane cut across her, "One more round. Put it on my tab." He nodded at her glass. "Same thing, or you gonna make Gus mix up another one of those city-girl cocktails?"

For a moment, she looked downright surprised—startled by the offer, maybe, or finally stunned by his ability to insult people. But then she grinned, wide and sincere.

"Just the beer," she said.

"Coming right up," Emily said, and wandered away.

Lower, heartfelt, Lydia said, "thanks."

He shrugged. "Seemed like you might need it. Drown your sorrows, and all that. You want a reliable source of magic, it's at the bottom of a glass."

"Never heard that one before."

"Trust me." He knocked back the rest of his own beer. "Secret backroom wisdom."

She didn't look at him reprovingly, the way Marnie always did when he made one of these jokes; she just nodded, sagely, like she believed him completely.

He doubted it, but...it was kind of nice, feeling like someone wanted to listen to him, for once. Feeling like somebody heard him.

Things could go back to normal tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Jas wasn't in her usual spot.

Shane stared at the shady place beneath the big tree by the forest lake. He didn't expect her to materialize, but he _hoped_ , which was a pretty big leap for him. If he hoped hard enough, maybe he could will her into existence. Maybe she was just hiding behind the tree, still mad at him…

He looked, even though he knew what he would see. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing. He gave the upper branches a perfunctory check, just in case she'd suddenly become capable of climbing a tree this big, but there was no sign of her lavender dress, of her green bow.

Shit. She'd been gone an hour already. If he'd known she was upset enough to go running off to a new hiding place, he'd have followed sooner.

At least, he told himself that, that her screechy voice hadn't provoked a headache so powerful that he'd been mostly incapable of stepping out into the sunlight until now. Screechy voices and hangovers were a bad combination.

He was going to have to enlist Marnie's help. Great. Fucking perfect. He didn't know how many more worried, disappointed looks he could endure from his aunt, but he was just going to have to suffer through it somehow. It would almost be better if she would just berate him outright. Almost.

He took his time heading back, hoping he'd find Jas somewhere in the intermittent forest and meadows. She loved the wide open space out here. She could be anywhere.

_Anywhere_. A hand closed tight around his lungs, squeezing them, cutting off his air. She could be anywhere. She could be hurt. She could be…

But he didn't get much further than that. It was an old fear, well-trod. It had lost its sharp edge, the squeak that had once kept him up at night.

Marnie looked up from the cash register as he came in, face tight with worry. "You didn't find her?"

"No," he snapped. 

Marnie didn't even flinch. "Maybe she'd have gone to Vincent's? I can—"

"No," Shane said, his tone better moderated this time. "No, when she's mad, she always wants to be alone." He didn't know much, but he knew that. In this one way, Jas had always matched him in temperament, rather than her parents.

Slowly, Marnie nodded. "All right, then...maybe...check with Lydia? She's still got a lot of undeveloped space on that farm, and it's nearby."

It was solid logic, but Shane resisted it. The last place he wanted to look was that farm. The last person he wanted to see was Lydia. He'd been in a weird place the night before, and it'd been...fine...having a drink with her, but he didn't want to give her any ideas about staying friendly.

So he'd just have to be extra rude while enlisting her help. Sure. Those two things went together.

"I'll come along," Marnie said, stepping out from behind the register, oblivious to his internal torment. "It's a big piece of land. Three of us searching separately will cover more ground."

"Assuming she wants to help," Shane muttered. It was probably too much to hope that she'd give them the run of her farm and then vanish into town for the afternoon.

"Of course she will. She's a sweet gal."

Shane didn't offer up any commentary on that, any of the words he'd use to describe her instead. Marnie locked up the ranch, and then they took the hard-packed dirt path north, following the old signpost pointing the way to Northern Lights Farm.

Shane vaguely remembered stumbling this way on a drunker night or two. Even wasted, he'd known to turn back. The southern entrance to the farm was overgrown; trees had crowded in, concealing any paths that might once have provided a route to the farmhouse.

Lydia hadn't completely cut back the overgrowth—impossible for one person in a single season to do—but she'd cleared a path, revealing old fences that were battered in some places and entirely broken in others. Nevertheless, the space between them was clear, showing a way through the trees, and Shane and Marnie followed it. In the distance, a dog barked.

"Sounds like Archimedes," Marnie said.

"Weird name for a dog."

"Lydia thought he had a clever face."

He lengthened his stride, even though it didn't help his headache one bit, hoping she'd be too out of breath to talk.

No such luck. Of course a woman who wrangled cows and chickens and sheep most days had the lung capacity to keep talking no matter how fast he walked. "Seemed like you two had a nice time last night."

Small towns. Only one bar, and it was the same bar everyone—including your aunt—went to. Usually Marnie was too busy chatting with Lewis to remark on what company Shane was or was not keeping, but not this time, apparently.

He didn't answer. That seemed safest.

"She seems a little lonely, isolated out here, fresh from the city," Marnie continued. "Bet you two have a lot in common."

There had been similar comments about other people—newcomers and community fixtures alike—over the last few months. Cautious encouragement to get out there, meet people, make friends.

"No," he said, "we don't."

"Shane—"

"Whatever it is, just stop, okay? Focus on finding Jas."

She sighed, low and disappointed, but didn't push further. They emerged from the path into an open field green with growing crops, and a dog rushed to meet them, tail wagging. Marnie leaned down to pat his head as he panted.

Shane saw the straw hat in the middle of the field before it popped up above the bean trellises. Lydia's face split into a wide grin as soon as she saw them. "Hey, neighbors!" she called.

Marnie shot him a look, as if to say, _See?_ He glared back.

Lydia sidled through the trellises and walked over, still beaming, brushing the dirt from her gloves. "What brings you up here?"

"Jas is missing," Shane said, before Marnie could hem and haw about it.

Lydia's face fell. "Oh, no. What can I do to—"

"We need to search your farm," he cut across her.

"Of course," she said, nodding. "Archimedes and I can help—"

"That's not necess—"

"If you think she ran up here, it is," Lydia said grimly. "There's a lot of land I haven't cleared yet, and I don't know what kind of hazards the weeds might be hiding. It'll be faster with three of us looking."

"Fine," he bit out, and before she could argue further, he picked a direction and started walking.

"Be careful!" Marnie called after him.

He ignored her, plunging back into the trees, and searched for any sign of a misbehaving little girl. Any handholds on the trees that might have allowed her to scale them. Any tall reeds around the swampy pond that might conceal her. Any boulders that were the right size for her to hide behind.

The sun moved overhead. He'd been hoarse to start with, but after half an hour of calling for her, he hardly had any voice left. It felt like his blood was pumping too sluggishly through his body, slowing him down. Every time he passed from shade to sunlight, he had to squint against the glare.

A squirrel ran for cover nearby. A woodpecker took flight. Every rustle could have been her dress, every squeak could have been her giggle—but it was just some creature moving through the wilderness, and she was nowhere to be found.

The right thing to do was to keep looking. Keep wading through the tall, prickly grasses that had consumed the southwestern quarter of Lydia's land; keep stubbing his toes on all the rocks and fallen branches hidden within the grass; keep scanning the horizon and then the treeline for any sign of a green bow vibrant against dark hair, a small head bobbing away from him into the woods.

But Shane was tired. Powerfully hungover. Head killing him, sun trying to stab his eyes out, stomach churning, limbs like noodles. They’d been at this an hour. If Jas was on the farm, she was doing a good job of ignoring them entirely, staying quiet and out of sight.

Or she just wasn’t here.

He sank down against the nearest tree, letting the tall grass conceal him up to his neck, and closed his eyes. In the distance, he could still hear Marnie calling for Jas, the fear in her voice blunted a little by an hour of searching.

He’d long since lost that anxiety. Long since stopped peeking into Jas’s room before he turned in for bed, just to make sure she was still breathing. Used to be he could reassure himself that way, even wobbly and drunk, convince himself there was still something left to him, that somehow his best friends lived on through her, a last lifeline, and if he just _checked_ , she would make it through the night.

But it was a stupid ritual. A false sense of security. She would make it, or she wouldn’t, and the universe wouldn’t ask his input on the matter. He couldn’t protect her. He couldn't protect anyone.

A shadow fell over him. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting here, steeped in exhaustion, head throbbing; maybe long enough for the sun to shift, to cast the shadow of another tree over him. He squinted one eye open.

Not another tree. Lydia. He barely repressed a groan.

He expected her to have a hard time hiding her disgust—or maybe reprimand him outright. _She’s your goddaughter. How could you just sit here?_ He welcomed it, even. Give him a chance to snap at her. Really deliver the kind of cutting words that would make her think twice about poking her nose where it didn't belong.

He wasn’t even sure she knew that Jas was his goddaughter. Marnie called the kid her niece, even though she wasn’t, technically. Maybe Lydia thought they were cousins. Siblings. Maybe it wasn’t immediately obvious how irresponsible he was.

Either way, she looked concerned instead of repulsed. From what he could tell, anyway, backlit as she was by the sun.

“Well, you look like hell,” she said, a statement of fact rather than an admonishment. “Here.”

She leaned down, offering a canteen of water. He considered refusing, but his liver could probably use it. He took it, spun the lid open, and drank, not bothering to thank her. It was fresh and cold. He just hoped she hadn't scooped it out of the pond.

“There’s a treehouse around here somewhere,” Lydia said, shading her eyes and looking west. “Used to love it when I was a kid. Bet if Jas found it, that’s where she is.”

He let his head fall back against the tree, breathing deep. “You remember where it is?”

“Ehhh, sort of.”

He stretched out his arm—a monumental effort—to return the canteen to her. She slipped it back into an outer pocket of her backpack, then offered her hand down, as if to help him up.

“Come on,” she said. Encouragingly. Like that was going to improve his mood. “I think it’s just a little further.”

He didn’t exactly want the help, but he wasn’t sure he could get back to his feet without it, either. Was this section of her farm full of quicksand? Was that the hazard she'd warned them about? It felt like it was pulling him down, convincing him to lie in the tall grass and go to sleep, maybe let it swallow him whole.

He took her hand. It was heavily calloused even under his own rough fingers. A season on the farm really had transformed her from desk jockey to hardy manual laborer.

She heaved, easily setting him on his feet, and nodded when he didn’t immediately fall back down. “Let’s go.”

It occurred to him that she was sacrificing precious daylight hours to help him. That she could be fighting battles against these weeds, clearing more land or watering her existing crops or doing pretty much anything except look for a runaway little girl.

What was she even getting out of this? Would she expect some kind of reward? A gold medal, or just gold, for being neighbor of the year, finder of lost children?

Or was her kindness just inherent and altruistic? Hard to believe the world hadn't crushed it out of her yet. She'd worked at Joja. How had she survived?

“We’ll find her,” she said, like a promise.

His heart softened—a little. Just a little. If the world hadn't crushed the neighborly do-gooder instinct out of her yet, fine. It would. Eventually. But he wasn't going to be the one to do it.

“Sorry,” he said. Grudgingly, but he managed to force the word out. “Bet you didn’t plan to spend your afternoon playing hide-and-seek.”

“I didn’t,” she acknowledged, “but it’s okay. Archimedes!”

A bit of grass several yards away rustled and the blond head of her dog popped up above it, black nose gleaming, snout glistening like he'd recently stuck his face in the pond.

“Find anything?” she asked, for all the world like the dog was going to answer her.

He barked, turned a circle, and went plunging ahead west.

“All right,” she said. “Good as any other direction, probably. There used to be a big rock out here marking the way to the treehouse, but I can’t remember if Granddad broke it up after…”

She trailed off, and despite his determined distance, he found his interest piqued. After she’d stopped visiting? After he’d come back as a ghost to strew hazards all over the farm for his granddaughter to deal with? After the angry creatures in the wilderness reclaimed this part of the farm for their own?

Any seemed likely, coming from her. He remembered her playful hints at magic the night before. But she didn’t finish the sentence, just frowned and continued on, following the rustling grass that indicated her dog’s path.

And he followed her. If he couldn’t do the right thing, he could at least walk in the shadow of someone who would.

"You know," she said, as if she was allergic to silence, "if you want, I could give her a tour of the farm. Show her the places she ought to stay away from. That way, if she runs off again—"

"She won't."

She gave him a sidelong look. "Sure. Kids are totally predictable and obedient that way."

He scowled. "You could put a gate on the entrance by the ranch. Solved."

"Unless you want me to build a ten-foot-high concrete wall, she'd just climb it. And even then...I've seen her and Vincent testing the trees in town. She might still get in. Trust me," she said, and smiled. "I was once seven and precocious."

"Never would've guessed," he said, thick with sarcasm, and she laughed like he'd made a joke.

"Granddad never did get this part of the farm running. He always had plans for it, but he always stopped short. Cleared the path every season, maintained the fences, but kept the woods in the end. It was the first place I'd run off to whenever I was sad, or upset, or had just been scolded." She looked around at the trees as they walked, wistful around the eyes.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Sometimes you need to lick your wounds in peace, right?"

"Not that. Why didn't he finish it?"

She glanced at him. "Said he had enough land, enough crops, to handle already." She hesitated, chewing on her lip. "But sometimes he told me that it was the forest spirits' home, so he couldn't cut it down."

"Let me guess," he said, unable to help his skeptical tone. "Those sounds you were talking about?"

"Sure," she said, all good-natured, like his cynicism didn't even touch her. "Why not?"

"Why not," he repeated in a mutter, and then, louder, "so you won't be clearing this, either?"

"Well, I don't really know if Granddad was telling the truth about having his hands full, but _I_ certainly do." She shook her head. "I keep the path clear, and the rest is future Lydia's problem. The one who theoretically has a working sprinkler system."

He snorted. She took a look around again and pointed at a jagged boulder rising above the grass, maybe sixty feet in front of them.

"That's the marker. Okay. If we overshoot it a little and look to the right…"

He saw the evidence of an overgrown path here—a narrower track than the one Lydia had cleared through the forest, marked by old fences. This was just beaten down by, presumably, a history of footsteps. Lydia made her way along it, Archimedes at her side now rather than ahead.

"Aha," she said, quieter now, eyes traveling up a nearby tree trunk. "I think we've found our fugitive."

Shane's heart leaped in relief. He could see the old, partially-rotted handholds nailed up the trunk of the tree, the intact structure among its branches, and the thinnest sliver of a green bow through the window.

"I'll give you two some space," Lydia said, still quiet, and retreated back to the boulder, gesturing for Archimedes to follow; he went, tail wagging.

Despite his skepticism, and some derision—the same kind he felt every time Emily made a comment on his aura, truth be told—he appreciated this. Maybe Lydia was just too blind to see what a fuck-up he was, but even so, she'd given him the benefit of the doubt, the space to handle Jas on his own.

It was like Marnie'd said. She was a sweet gal. Too bad this unruly farm was going to break her of all that.

He considered the hand-holds, decided the risk of breaking a bone was acceptable, and began to climb. By the time he'd gotten halfway up, Jas knew he was coming, but there was no escape, and she wasn't desperate enough or stupid enough to jump out the treehouse window. She watched him with big, wary eyes as he contorted himself through the treehouse floor and settled gingerly on the worn floorboards.

For a long moment, they sat in silence, looking at each other. Shane was out of breath, and didn't know what exactly to say, anyway. Jas huddled in the opposite corner, tearstains on her face, some combination of defiance and guilt in the set of her jaw.

"You scared the sh—" He caught himself just in time. "You really scared me."

Her lip wobbled. He braced himself. "I'm sorry," she said, eyes gleaming again.

He stretched his legs out, enough to tap his shoe against hers. Almost instinctively, it seemed, she tapped back.

She'd still been a baby when he'd taught her to do that.

"Me too." He cleared his throat. "I was a real grouch this morning."

"Me too," she echoed, and rubbed a fist into her watering eyes. "I miss them so much."

How many times was it acceptable to say _Me too_? It didn't matter, because Shane couldn't get the words out. He patted the floorboards beside him instead, and Jas scrambled over to sit next to him, leaning against his side.

It wasn't sufficient. He was a poor substitute. No substitute at all, really. But he was all she had. Him and Marnie.

Poor kid.

"Don't run off again," he said. "Or at least go places I know."

She sniffed. "I like this treehouse."

He had a sudden, terrifying premonition of further forced interaction with Lydia.

"Look. There's drawings." Jas pointed, and he saw the little carvings in the wall. Your standard initials— _L.A.V._ in a shaky hand, _B.I.V._ in a steadier one beneath it—but also pictures. Little round creatures with guileless eyes and thin limbs, painted over in faded colors, sometimes outside the lines.

Forest spirits, probably.

"It's not our property, kiddo," he tried.

"Lydia's really nice. She always says hi to me when she's talking to Miss Penny. She gave me a dandelion once." She turned her tearful face up to Shane. "Maybe she'd let me come over sometimes."

Shane relented. It was hard to tell her _no_ , especially for something so innocuous. He always felt like shit afterward, anyway.

So he'd have to put up with Lydia's sunny attitude once in a while. Whatever. Maybe Jas could get a little bit of happiness out of it. A childhood in the middle of all this horror. He could make some sacrifices on his personal comfort for that.

"We can ask her," he said, making a mental note to also ask her to replace the handholds on the trunk. "Can't believe you climbed all the way up here by yourself."

She grinned. "I'm strong, right?"

"You sure are," he said, and thought, _Way stronger than me_. "Let's get down from this thing, okay?"

She nodded, wiped at her face again, and hugged him quickly before scrambling past him to begin the descent.

He was an unfeeling asshole these days. The entire world had blended into some kind of dull, vomit-colored blur. But he loved her, even so.

If only it was enough.

He followed her down to the ground only to find her already frolicking with Archimedes, laughing as the dog enthusiastically licked her face. "Oh, he's so soft!" she exclaimed, gently petting the blond head.

Lydia approached from the boulder, smiling. "He likes you," she told Jas. "And he _loves_ hide-and-seek. You gave him a good game."

Jas looked down, shy again. "Sorry I hid on your farm, Miss Lydia."

"No harm done," Lydia said. She cast a questioning look at Shane.

He sighed. "Jas likes your treehouse."

She brightened immediately. "It's a great treehouse. Used to spend a lot of time in it when I was a kid."

Shane nudged Jas. She buried her face in Archimedes' fur—he weathered the hug happily—and then peeked up at Lydia.

"Can I visit sometimes?" she asked, barely audible.

Lydia looked another question at Shane. So respectful, so intent not to overstep the bounds of his terrible guardianship.

He nodded.

"Of course!" Lydia cast a critical eye at the steps. "I'd better replace those steps first, though. Don't want anybody to get hurt."

She really was excruciatingly, painfully nice. He hated it. But he sort of, grudgingly, appreciated it.

"I can help with that," he offered. "We've got spare lumber at the ranch, and if Jas is going to be using it…"

It was fair, he figured. She was doing Jas a good turn. He didn't want to incur any debts. Maybe he could fix up some of those fences for her, too.

"Perfect," Lydia said. "Maybe we can do that next Saturday? Jas can hang out with Archimedes. If you don't have any plans."

Plans. Watching the pizza rolls spin in the microwave, maybe. Downing a few beers when the clock said it was acceptable to do so. Wandering the woods after Jas had gone to bed, coming back after Marnie had gone to sleep.

Jas looked back and forth between them, arms still looped around the dog's neck, some strange hope in her sad little face.

If she wanted to believe he was making a friend, fine. If she wanted to believe things were going to get better, great. He just had to maintain the illusion.

"We're free," he said. "If Jas really wants to hang out with this stinky animal all day."

"He's not stinky," Jas protested. Archimedes licked a broad stripe across her face, as if in thanks, and she giggled again.

Lydia flashed him a subtle thumbs-up. He rolled his eyes. It was one Saturday.

He could still fit in the beer-drinking and woods-wandering if they finished early enough.


	3. Chapter 3

"And this is the pond. Archimedes thinks it's his pool, as you can tell. It's pretty deep, so don't try and swim in it. The bottom is composed of Sticky Mud, which is very dangerous."

"Sticky Mud?" Jas repeated, hanging on Lydia's every word.

"Eh, that's what Granddad always said. Personally I don't think this mud is stickier than any other mud, but he was trying to keep me safe."

Jas nodded solemnly. "I won't swim in the pond."

"Perfect." Lydia flashed a smile at Shane. "Let's go get the treehouse fixed up then, huh?"

Jas clapped her hands in glee. "Yes!"

She ran out ahead of them, hair fluffing out behind her in the summer breeze. Archimedes barked, shook the water off his coat, and rushed after her. They'd already passed by the treehouse once today, and it was clear that Jas remembered the way; she didn't wait for the two adults to take the lead, merely kept up her pace about fifty feet ahead, chattering away to Archimedes.

One bad habit already picked up from the farm girl. Great.

"She's a sweet kid," Lydia said, watching Jas trot ahead of them. "Curious as hell, huh?"

He tried to remember why he'd agreed to this. Lydia had helped him find that sweet kid last weekend. Stuck her neck out when she didn't have to. She'd been so damn nice about it.

But she talked so, so much. That was part of the _nice_ shtick. He wasn't hungover—not this time—but he somehow felt worse for it. Felt...dry. Like those three beers at the saloon last night, so carefully rationed, had left him worse off than six, or nine. He sure hadn't slept any better for cutting back.

"Yeah," he said, with a monumental effort. "Once she comes out of her shell."

"Family resemblance, maybe?" she said, with a sly smile.

He didn't bother to correct her; he just looked away, focusing on Jas. That much, at least, he could enjoy. Jas skipping through the meadow grasses, back and forth across the path, Archimedes jumping along with her as she sang some song he only caught snatches of. It sounded like a distortion of one of those clapping games kids were always playing. He knew a few of them.

"I can take care of the treehouse," he said, trying to sound casual about it. "You probably have a dozen other things to deal with."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of her shoulders lift in a shrug. "Nah. I got all the watering done this morning. This is my budgeted project for the day. Part of it, at least. Shouldn't take too long."

Well, he'd tried.

"Though I have to say," she said, coming to a stop beneath the treehouse, right beside the pile of lumber, "I think this is a little much for some hand holds."

Some of it was for her fences, but he wasn't about to tell her that outright. "Figured a full ladder would be sturdier. She's not exactly going to get smaller, and if I ever have to go up after her again, I don't want to fear for my life."

Lydia chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Fair enough." She set her backpack down against the tree trunk. "You have a plan, then?"

It went easier after that. When she was focused on something, she wasn't so chatty; she said only what was needed to work out each new problem they ran into, only enough to make sure that neither of them were in the way when one of them was cutting a piece of lumber, assembling the ladder. Jas clambered up and down the nearby boulder for a while, teasing Archimedes when he couldn't follow her up, before eventually settling in a patch of grass with a book. The dog lolled beside her, apparently perfectly content.

"Okay," Lydia said, eyeing the handholds, "let's get it sort of in the right place, and then I can get up there and nail it down." She hooked a hammer and bag of nails to her belt.

They got the ladder upright, braced against the tree trunk, and then, quick as a flash, Lydia scrambled up the old handholds. Once she was safely seated above, Shane eased the ladder into place.

Lydia glanced around before she started hammering. "I can't believe all my old doodles are still up here. Wow, I...was not great at coloring inside the lines."

"I wasn't going to say it, but yeah. You're not exactly an artist."

She snorted. Seemed like everything he meant as an insult, or a judgment, she took as a joke. Or maybe she just didn't read into every word other people sent her direction, the way he did. Must be nice.

"I'm not," she agreed, unfazed. She double-checked the position of the ladder—Shane kept it braced against the ground—and then fished out a nail and began to hammer it in. "Forgot Granddad carved his initials up here, too. Can't believe he managed to climb this old thing."

" _B.I.V._ ," he recalled.

"Bernard Isaiah Vesela." Her mouth tugged down. She moved on to the next nail. "He did the junimo carvings, too. I just tried to fill them in."

"Junimo," Shane repeated.

"Yeah. Forest spirits." She sighed. "Probably a lot like Sticky Mud, I guess."

He didn't really know what to say to that. Nothing nice, probably. Nothing reassuring. That wasn't his thing. He kept his mouth shut, and she didn't speak again, continuing to fix the ladder in place.

"All right," she said finally. "Moment of truth."

She hooked the hammer back to her belt and started the climb down. The ladder didn't so much as wobble, firmly braced between ground and tree.

"Perfect," she declared, though she'd clearly lost some of her earlier sunniness.

"Is it done?" Jas called, jumping to her feet.

Shane saw the way Lydia tried to hitch up her smile. It felt like watching some private, painful struggle. It felt like every moment he'd tried to do exactly the same thing, usually for Jas, like someone was holding up a mirror to his own face. He looked away.

"All done," Lydia confirmed. "Come test it out, will you?"

Jas squealed with delight and ran over. Archimedes followed at a more sedate pace, clearly worn out from his earlier exertions. As easily as Lydia had scaled the handholds, Jas climbed the ladder, miniature backpack bouncing on her shoulders. There was a happy sigh from above them as she settled in.

"This is a _perfect_ place to read," she declared, and stuck her head out the window to wave down at them. "Thanks, Miss Lydia! Thanks, Shane!"

Shane scuffed a foot through the dirt. It'd been a long time since she'd seemed so happy. "Sure, kid."

Lydia's smile looked a little steadier when Jas vanished back inside. "She's sure got a handle on life's simple pleasures." She nudged the remaining lumber with her foot. "Lots left over here. I'll help you cart it back when she's ready to go home."

No putting it off any longer. "It's for your fences," he said. "They're pretty rough in places."

She looked up at him, head tipped a bit to the side, frowning now. "What?"

"You spent a lot of time helping me look for her last weekend, and...this." He gestured vaguely at the treehouse. "I owe you."

She huffed out a breath, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "That's...nice, but it's not necess—"

"I don't want Jas to climb one of those things and then it breaks beneath her, okay?" He picked up a bundle of the lumber. "Kids getting stabbed with broken old fences is bad."

He didn't like the look in her eyes. It was too soft by far, and she was fighting a smile at this point, rather than trying to prop it up. She was going to get the wrong idea from this, clearly.

"Okay," she said, nodding. "Let's fix some fences, then. Archimedes, stay with your new best friend, traitor."

The dog barked once and settled at the base of the ladder. Lydia picked up a bundle of lumber, too. Coming this way, he saw that the thin path trod through the grass by feet actually led to a gate, one that came out on the hard-packed dirt framed by fencing.

Taking a look around at the fences, she let out a long, tired sigh. "Jeez. You're right. I cut back a lot of the weeds, but...it's still a mess."

It was too similar to that instant just moments ago, when the mask on her face had slipped. He saw too much he recognized there. Someone who was overwhelmed. Someone who was underwater.

"No offense," he said, "but it seems like you've really got your hands full."

She huffed, leaned down to put the lumber on the ground, and straightened up, knuckling her back. "That obvious, huh?"

"All this was overgrown a few months ago. No one had so much as set foot on the property in years. It was all just weeds and woods."

She folded her arms over her chest and raised an eyebrow at him. "That so?"

"That's what Marnie said, anyway," Shane clarified. He was not about to admit to his midnight wanderings.

"Yeah, well, I'm working on it." She sounded a little defensive, for once. She certainly looked it. "It's just going to take more than a season."

He considered letting it drop, starting in on the fences, but he was...curious. Morbidly, maybe. All this time, all these weeks, she'd been unrelenting in her attempts to ingratiate herself with the town. Even with _him_ , even though he'd kept trying to send her scurrying. He'd had one perception of her, of a relentlessly friendly person, but this was slowly revealing another, different one. One that he liked better, actually. That look that had crossed her face as she sat in the old treehouse, the way her mood had dimmed afterward…

Maybe they were right, and misery really did love company. Maybe he just wanted to know that someone else had figured out how to fake it. Maybe he wanted lessons.

"How'd it end up getting dumped on you, anyway?" he pressed.

Her voice hardened. "Granddad died. Obviously."

"Right," he said, pushing onward despite the warning in her face, "but why _you_?"

"Fuck, is it that obvious I have no idea what I'm doing? You think I don't deserve the land or something? Was Marnie hoping to buy it?"

So she _could_ get upset about something. Angry, even.

"Not that I know of," he said.

She glared, hazel eyes fierce, shoulders up around her ears.

"Just seems like it would've gone to one of your parents," he said, shrugging. "That's all."

She laughed—not like before. It was a cutting sound, furious. "Dad's the one who left it this way. _He_ doesn't deserve it."

He waited, listening. Interested, despite the way she was looking at him, which indicated a clear desire to stab him to death.

She let out a low breath, visibly tried to compose herself. "Did I do something to piss you off? There a reason you're picking a fight with me?"

"I asked a question," he corrected. "I wasn't picking a fight."

"Forgive me for interpreting it that way, but it seems like your default state of being, frankly."

"Just curious. That's all."

He felt her eyes on him as he moved over to one of the busted sections of fence, assessing what needed to be done. After a moment, she followed.

"Needs to be rebuilt entirely here," he said.

She nodded. "I cleared some fallen debris off this section. Probably what caused it."

They went to work in a new, strained silence, cutting and framing. After the second section had been repaired, and Lydia was holding a few boards in place for him to hammer, she spoke again, like she couldn't take the tension any longer.

"Dad hated this place. Hated growing up here, hated living in the middle of nowhere, hated the work. So Granddad willed it to me. Only problem was, I was nine."

Shane considered. "So your dad was supposed to upkeep it until you could take over."

"Yeah. He just...couldn't be fucked, I guess."

He snorted despite himself; it'd been hard, half an hour ago, to imagine her using that kind of language, but his pushiness had exposed some other side of her.

"If I'd realized he wasn't looking after it, I'd have come sooner." She trailed off, took another hopeless glance around. "But I didn't," she added under her breath, almost like she'd forgotten he was there, like she was talking to herself. "So all I can do now is fix it." Visibly, she straightened: shoulders squaring, chin lifting.

She'd alluded to magic, to spirits, but to him, _this_ seemed like magic. A weird round alien that lived in the woods wasn't capable of this.

It was clear how much she missed her grandfather. Family that'd been gone most of her life, now, but in these last few moments she'd worn the grief like it was fresh. And maybe, in other ways, it was. Maybe her dad's actions had reopened the wounds. But she was persevering.

"You could rent it out," he pointed out, lining up another nail. "Sell it, even."

She pulled a face, nose wrinkling. "Never." And then, hesitating, "Well. Not yet, anyway. If I do everything I can and still can't turn a profit, then...I guess I'll have to be realistic. Hand it off to someone who knows what they're doing. I don't know if I could bear it." She took a deep breath. "He gave me this place. I was sick of my job—it was _making_ me sick, honestly—but more than that…" She cleared her throat. "You ever lose someone like that, and just want to be close to them again? This is where I feel closest to him."

He nodded, a little unwillingly. "Yeah. I get that."

She looked a question at him over the fence. He didn't have to answer; he knew by now that she didn't push, not like that—not like him. She pushed for a _hello_ , maybe, or an acknowledgment, or a few minutes of small talk, but not for this.

Still. She'd revealed something that hurt her, and he hadn't made it easy. Turnabout was fair play.

"Jas's parents," he said. He meant to make that a sentence, meant to add a verb at the end. It stuck in his throat, though, unpracticed as it was. "Guess I'm lucky. She's still small enough to cart around with me wherever, mostly."

She sat back on her heels. "Shit. Your brother? Sister?"

"Nah. Just...friends." That didn't seem sufficient to describe them. It never had. He'd made his peace with it, as much as he'd made peace with anything. "She's my goddaughter. Unfortunately for her."

She didn't argue with that, and he appreciated it. Everyone had rushed to reassure him at the beginning, told him Jas was lucky to have him, but what did they know? They hadn't seen what he would become. How low he would sink. How much better Patrick and Charlotte had made him; how much worse he was, a shell, now that they were gone.

She looked back toward the treehouse, back toward where they'd left Jas.

"Recent?" she said.

"About a year ago." He wasn't about to tell her the exact date. He doubted the resulting pitying look would be good for his health.

He braced himself for what came next, regardless. He'd always hated the condolences. They were awkward. They didn't help. Any religious platitudes only made him angry; any promises that things would get better eventually seemed empty. Things would never get better, because they would never be the way they were.

"Poor Jas," she murmured. "No wonder."

"Yeah, I'd act up too if my parents died and left me with someone like me."

She looked back to him, eyes softening. "It's not you, though. You could be the perfect person...the perfect substitute parent...and she'd still want them, at least sometimes."

They'd been crouched over this pile of lumber, no longer building a fence, for several minutes now. He sat down in the dirt, giving his knees a break.

"That what happened to you?"

She smiled, but it had a grim edge. "Dad wasn't any substitute, if that's what you're asking. And yeah, I bet I was a brat for a few years." She sat back, too, looped her arms around her knees and hugged them to her chest. "And obviously we've had our disagreements, but I still love him. He did what he could. We all have a limit." She rubbed a hand over her eyes, smearing a little dirt over her face. "He lost his dad, same time I lost Granddad. Everybody has their own grief."

That was true, sometimes. Sometimes, he had his grief. And other times he had his resentment, or his anger, or—worst of all, maybe—nothing at all. Just a little girl to raise and no idea how to do it. No idea how to _live_ to do it.

But at least she didn't tell him she was sorry. At least she didn't tell him it would be okay, someday. She just sat with him in the quiet, both embroiled in their own thoughts, and for once, it was sort of nice to have company.

Off in the distance, there came a strange, hollow, piping call. Lydia lifted her head from her knees, turned her face toward it, smile creeping over his face.

"That's the sound," she said. "The one I was telling you about. It's probably just some weird bird, but Granddad always said it was the junimos." She laughed a little. "I'd convinced myself I imagined it, or maybe he ran off at night and made it to entertain me. But then, the first night here...I heard it."

She glanced at him, questioning, a trace of worry on her face. Like she thought she was still imagining it.

He wasn't about to agree to _forest spirits_ , but she wasn't totally crazy, either. He could give her that much.

"You're right," he agreed. "That definitely sounds like a noise a weird bird would make."

She laughed, loud and relieved, and knocked the dust from her hands. "Okay," she said, businesslike and focused again. "Under threat of attack by weird birds, we should probably get this show on the road."

Wordlessly, he raised the hammer. She held the boards in place. Occasionally, they heard Jas laugh or shout down to Archimedes from the treehouse; occasionally, as the sun sank lower, that far-off call repeated.

Weird bird or not, he sort of liked it.


End file.
